


The way he says things is different from the way he does things

by fineandwittie



Series: And I'll call you by mine [4]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: And remember Oliver is only 24, I couldn't help myself, I think Oliver is hurting just as much if not more than Elio, M/M, Oliver's POV, Scene Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fineandwittie/pseuds/fineandwittie
Summary: This is a rewrite of a scene from the book, which could also be grafted onto the movie.Elio returns at dawn after spending the night with Marzia at the Aquarium. Oliver pines.





	The way he says things is different from the way he does things

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in this fandom. I'm excited to join. I saw the movie over the weekend and absolutely fell in love. I am drowning in CMBYN and I don't want a life raft.

He didn’t return until just before dawn. 

Which meant of course that he’d been fucking Marzia. When I realized this, I wondered if they’d spent the night on the Berm. If he used that location as a lure for would-be lovers, a card up his sleeve to pull out and play when nothing else worked or when he wanted to seal the deal.

And it worked on Marzia. Of course it had. It had nearly worked on me too. 

I could still feel the ghostly heat of his palm on my cock through my shorts, resting gently against me as he watched the play of his fingers across the fabric. His eyelashes had fanned out dark against the paleness of his skin. I had wanted to reach for him, to strip him right there in the Italian summer sun and taste every inch of him. 

Instead, I’d rested my hand lightly over his, fighting the impulse to press it closer, to grind against his palm, and had twined our fingers together. 

I had said a silent prayer of thanks that he had not tried to slip his hand inside my shorts instead. Feeling his skin against mine would have crumbled all my resolve to dust. I wasn’t sure that all my resolve wouldn’t crumble to dust anyway.

At least now I knew he wasn’t a virgin. It didn’t make me feel better about what was brewing between us. If anything, it make the situation worse. 

Because now, I felt as though I were drowning in images of him, with Marzia and Chiara or her sister, with the grocer’s oldest son, with Matteo from just the other side of B who I’d seen lean in too close to Elio on the dance floor the night I’d danced with Chiara. With anyone I’d ever seen Elio interact with in town. I couldn’t stop the tide of fantasies that felt like nightmares. 

I spent the hour after dawn laying flat on my stomach, my aching cock pressed against the sheets, choking on both tears and desire. I gave in to neither. 

It made me think of the casual way he’d mentioned his near-miss with Marzia earlier in the summer. His confident _she would have said yes_ was, I had thought at the time, merely posturing. A boy on the cusp of manhood trying to act, to sound older than he was. Of the way that Pro had simply smiled and as _And why didn’t you?_ as though it were the most natural topic of conversation, as though all parents discuss the sex lives of their teenaged sons at the breakfast table like this: encouraging, sardonic, accustomed.

Now, I knew better.

Maybe it was a common topic of conversation. I imagined Elio having the same conversation with his father about me. Imagined Elio with the odd little smirk of his curling at his plush, red mouth telling his father _Oliver and I almost did it on the Berm_ and his father’s reply of _And why didn’t you?_

The very idea made my gorge rise. It terrified me, the thought that Elio was indifferent. I knew he wanted me. I could see it in the trail of his eyes over my body, in the flush on his pale cheeks, the way he looked at me on the Berm and the way he’d responded to my kisses. But what if I’d been wrong when I called him out on pretending not to care? There had been a flicker of hurt in his face when I’d said it, but maybe I’d imagine that. Maybe he wasn’t pretending. Or maybe he just wanted to fuck me and be done with it. An attraction he couldn’t control, but did not want. 

I couldn’t swallow. I thought perhaps that that was what dying feels like. 

And with the fear, something darker. Jealousy and possession. I didn’t just want him. I didn’t just need him. I wanted to have him, own him, possess him mind, body, and soul. I wished I could crack open his chest and wear him around me like a second skin. I wished I could, like Cronus, unhinge my jaw, open my mouth, and swallow him whole so that he could live inside of me always.

I felt like I was going mad.

But worst of all…Worse than the desire or the irrational need…I adored him. And I knew that if all he wanted from me was a fuck…sooner or later, I would give him that. I would get on my knees for him, let him fuck me, if that was all he desired of me.

_Do I like you, Oliver? I worship you._

But there was nothing of love in worship. Not really.There was nothing of any affection at all. Maybe he worshipped Marzia too, and Chiara and Matteo and everyone he’d ever slept with. 

He never actually said he liked me. Only worship. 

And now the biggest barrier that I’d erected between us, the bolster holding up my resolve, was gone. He was not a virgin. The thing I’d feared taking from him, he’d already given away.

I felt sick with it. The knowledge of this, of how much I’d actually wanted to take it for myself, to know that even if I never saw him again after this summer, I would always hold some piece of him. That he would not forget me. 

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, my entire body felt bruised or maybe it was only my heart. Either way, I needed to get out of this house. Away from the agony that was sleeping the sleep of the well fucked in the next room. 

I ran.

I ran, hoping the pounding of my feet might beat away the images I couldn’t contain. 

It didn’t work and finally I turned back, exhausted from not sleeping, queasy and heartsore. 

I wanted his body, of course I did. 

He was beautiful, all sharp angles and smooth skin. His mouth looked made to wrap around a cock. He was stronger than he looked, I knew, and his thighs were muscled from swimming and tennis and biking, and I wanted to know how they would feel on my hips. 

But more than that, so much more, I wanted him to be happy. I cursed myself for sounding like that stupid romance movie we’d all taken shots at the night we all stayed in, and yet I ached with it. If I could just be sure that he was happy with Marzia, I could be fine with that. I could control myself.

I vowed that I would ask him today. Later.

But that vow fell to pieces the minute I stepped back into my room. On the floor was a folded sheet of lined paper. Dread was like a tangible thing in the room with me. I felt if I tried I might reach out and touch it. I opened the note.

_Can’t stand the silence. I need to speak with you._

His handwriting, like his musical compositions, was elegant. Sharp at the edges, but with a gentle curve to it. I brushed a finger crossed the ink. The words scored my bones and slipped a knife into my heart. One which I was certain that Elio would pull out tonight some way or another. Leaving me to bleed out into the carpet.

Because I was always going to cave to this. How could I stand firm against his desire? Against the temptation of his body and of his mind?

I did like the way he said things. Even things like this.

Any measure of calm that my run had given me was ripped away with ten words scrawled onto a slip of paper. I knew what my reply would be before I sat down to write it.

_Grow up. I’ll see you at midnight._

Grow up. Be older. Be a woman. Be a hundred impossible things all at once that would make it so much easier for me to take you in my arms and bury my heart inside your chest.

Grow up. Because Elio was no better than my flatmate back home who tried to sleep with every woman he met. Grow up because I needed every commitment from you that I could ask for, that I had no right to. I needed it like I needed air in my lungs and blood in my veins.

Seventeen is so young. And yet I could picture myself the younger of the two of us when he’s playing piano or guitar, when he’s transcribing music, when he’s discussing literature or art or archeology. But, there are seven years between us. I’ve graduated college and he has yet to attend. It feels like a chasm, but one narrow enough that, if I tried, I could reach across and clasp his hand. If he was willing to offer it to me.

I put the note on his desk and went down to breakfast.

I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to see if he had marks on him from Marzia’s hands or mouth. I hadn’t heard him shower, but sitting across from him, there was no scent of sex in the air. The thought of it clawed its way up my throat and escaped in a question I could quite control. 

“Did you have fun last night, then?”

I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know. Don’t tell me, I thought fiercely, trying to control my face so that Pro wouldn’t notice anything amiss. Don’t tell me that you fucked her. Don’t tell me that you had a wonderful night. But worse than that, don’t lie to me. I couldn’t bear it if you did.

I’ll die if you do. I swear I will. 

“ _Insomma_ , so-so.” He shrugged, vague and noncommittal.

And it hurt worse than all the others combined. I changed my mind. I wanted him to lie. I wanted him to tell me that he’d had sex. Anything, but what he’d given me.

A dismissal, clear as day. Of me? Maybe. Of his night with Marzia? Definitely. Was sex so commonplace for him that one night was neither here nor there? Did he care so little for his partners? Or was it that he cared so little for me that he didn’t feel the need to boast or even formulate a real answer? 

I could barely breath. I couldn’t force anything more down my gullet without risking being sick all over the table. God, when had Elio grown so cruel? Or was he always this way and I’d simply been blinded by love? I didn’t know…

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciate. I also take prompts so hit me up if you want a fic :D


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